


Release

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Heartache, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Poetry, Post-Mark of Cain, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'In the wintertime, Dean Winchester begins to forget.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**16.**

 

In the wintertime, Dean Winchester begins to forget.

It starts slowly - small things, things that can be

looked over

passed by

wandered through with eyes shut tight.

 

They are a coffee mug misplaced;

pockets patted, for non-existent keys;

the wrong name,

murmured in a moment.

 

_Pass the salt, Cas?_

Across the room, Sam looks at him;

and suddenly, in a moment, his eyes are filled

with pity. Dean can't stand it, so he says

snaps

grunts:

_What?_

 

Sam is quiet. Light streams

through the window; dust motes float

spiralling together

never apart.

 

_You said Castiel._

 

Dean has no answer to that;

so, he turns away, and doesn't

speak at all.

 

**15.**

 

The days pass.

 

They hunt vampires; rugarus; demons.

There is blood, on Dean's hands; staining his knuckles,

and no matter how much he washes

(scrubbing and straining)

it will not come off.

 

The shadow on his skin pulses -

and he cannot forget. It will not let him.

 

The days pass.

Flowers bloom; Sam beheads a creature,

gasping, floundering, choking.

Afterwards, they drink in a bar

together, as brothers.

 

The whiskey flows by his lips

all too easily -

and he asks for another

and another

until his skin buzzes

and his heart leaps.

 

He hasn't felt like this for a long time.

He can't remember the last time.

(He can remember it -

he just doesn't want to.)

 

Afterwards, they rock from side to side, grinning;

caught in a storm, bobbing around, helpless. Hopeless.

Sam's arm is around his shoulders,

holding him up,

supporting him -

and it's just the way it's always been, really.

(It isn't. Neither of them say it.)

 

They stumble back to the motel,

and smile,

and smile,

and slump back into beds and chairs.

Dean's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He doesn't dream. It's blissful.

 

The next morning, Dean wakes;

his head throbs, limbs ache.

He stares at the wall, with its faded print,

until the world stops spinning.

 

Sam is waiting for him, when he patters through,

lap-top screen glowing before him.

Dean groans at him, and he raises one eyebrow.

That's all they need. They don't talk much, anymore.

 

Time passes.

 

**14.**

 

In the spring, Sam meets a girl.

She is tawny-haired, with a sparkling smile,

and a chiming voice.

 

She is not Jess - she never can be Jess.

She is neither a hunter

nor a college girl

nor broken.

 

Sam loves her anyway;

and Dean

by extension

forgives her.

 

They marry in the summer. She has flowers

in her curls, and Sam wears a suit.

Dean fought with him, the night before.

You wanna give us up? Is that it?

 

Sam has bags under his eyes;

Dean feels guilt cling to the centre

of his chest;

but he fights it down, and smiles,

and congratulates them (as best he can).

 

Sam's touch tells him that it's enough.

 

Back at the hotel,

with the noise of party-goers spilling

through open windows

Dean pours himself another shot

and tries not to think

at all.

 

The girl has blue eyes.

 

**13.**

 

The diagnosis comes as no surprise.

It is a crisp

cool day,

with light clouds,

and a touch of warmth.

 

Dean waits in a white room

as the news hits

bullet-like

startling with its

ferocity

intensity

noise.

 

_Anterograde Amnesia._

Blood on his hands; spilling up the walls,

searing him.

_Failure of memory encoding, and storage,_

Flames flickering, up high walls;

a gun in his hand,

_due to damage to the hypothalamus_

_and thalamus_

_and the surrounding_

_cortical structures._

breath smoking

heart thudding.

 

_Loss of the ability to create new memories._

_It can be caused by severe brain trauma,_

_or be drug-induced_

_(alcohol-intoxication is known to have_

_the same effect)._

_Less commonly,_

_it can be caused by_

_shock_

_or_

_an emotional_

_disorder._

 

On his arm, a patch of bare skin burns.

 

**12.**

 

Dean thinks it's fitting.

 

Hand warm in his, Sam doesn't agree.

 

They go back to the Impala,

and Dean breathes in the scented leather

and lets Sam drive him home,

and call his wife

(his _wife_ )

and pull the covers up over him -

and tell him that they will make this work

and everything is going to be alright.

 

He doesn't say that Winchesters stick together

to the bitter end.

He doesn't say that no matter what

he'll stay -

and that even if he wants to leave again

he'll never let his brother down.

 

Dean smiles at him

and says that he believes it

(lies).

 

(When he's alone

he punches a hole in the wall

and sobs.)

 

**11.**

 

That night

Dean pours himself a tot of whiskey

and puts a chair against the door

and prays.

 

He bows his head

and closes his eyes

and sits

quietly

body humming

and flaring alight.

 

That night

Dean Winchester sits alone;

and as the branches whisper

outside his window

he listens to the silence

and tells a story.

 

**10.**

 

It is the story of a man

who was lost

and who fell

into a pit of his own creation.

 

It is the story of nights spent awake

and screams of agony

and tortured souls

and falling

apart.

 

It is the story of bright

white

light -

and shielding his eyes

and being torn apart

and shaking

quaking

in the shadow of something

beautiful.

 

It is the story of waking

in a shallow grave;

and clawing through soil

in the stifling, cloying heat

and walking beside a grey,

grey road.

 

It is the story of a barn

and a night

and a beginning

and an angel.

 

It is the story of a hero -

with a tattered trenchcoat

and a hesitant smile

and fears and dreams. 

 

It is the story of a ring of sparks

and moving towards eternity

and family

and betrayal

and hope.

 

It is a story of a man

and his angel.

 

It is Dean's -

and he knows

in flickering his heart of hearts

that he will never

forget

it.

 

 

Light trickles,

and spills,

spreading out across the carpeted floor;

and as Dean watches

it seems to him

that it is golden.

 

**9.**

 

In the spring,

Dean forgets.

He eats breakfast

and smiles

and tells Sam how good it is -

and Sam smiles

with strained lips

and drinks his coffee.

By now, it must be cold.

Dean doesn't mention it.

Neither does Sam.

 

Dean has a lunch

(which he cannot recall)

and sits in a park

where the benches are the wrong size -

and there is nobody sitting beside him

as Sam loiters

supposedly undetected

in the foreground.

 

There is no slight smile

or faint wind

or children playing

laughing and hollering and cheering

but a few feet away.

 

_I have questions. I have doubts._

 

The park is quiet.

 

Dean can think of little else.

 

**8.**

 

Minutes and hours blur

startling in their similarity.

Spectrums of colour

arc through the air

borne wide

on blackened wings.

 

Dean wakes crying out

and crying

and even as there are footsteps

and lights snap on

he can't control it.

 

 

There is nothing left to save.

 

**7.**

 

Minutes. Hours.

In front of them, Dean keeps himself together;

nods, responds. Laughs.

 

In the solace of his room

he retches;

pools into oblivion

the shadows swallowing,

anticipating.

Waiting.

 

There are demons - outside the windows

pawing on the glass

fast and fluid and deadly.

Inwardly, Dean hisses; curses;

there is no knife to find.

 

_Pass the salt, Sam?_

 

_There isn't any, Dean._

 

_Right. Sorry. Stupid._

 

There are demons - outside the windows

snarling through pointed teeth

tearing blue eyes and pale skin

and dark hearts apart-

 

_Sammy...could you pass the salt?_

 

**6.**

 

Chewing gum, smacked

between pale lips;

ruby red, grass-green

apples, chewed up

and spat out and

caressed

softly

with

soft words

and half-smiles

and sapphire,

sapphire

eyes.

 

**5.**

 

It's midnight, and it's too hot;

cloying, scraping at his skin,

scratching him away -

but it can't remove him,

and it can't remove it -

the mark, his mark -

the space where the mark used

to be -

an empty canvas

stretched taut

over his dripping

soul.

 

It's sinking into his pores;

whispering in his ear

with a 

silken voice,

telling him

everything -

 

_Family._

_Need._

_Want._

_Kill._

 

In the room next door,

Sam is sleeping, his arm wound

carelessly around her waist;

and doesn't he get

the fragile, blooming,

precious thing he has?

 

Doesn't he know that it has taken

over his world;

slowly and surely

watching and leaning closer

and closer and closer

warm and safe and comforting

tinged with worry and fear and

hope?

 

Dean can't bear it.

He can't.

He can't look on

silent

as they kiss and touch and

care

silent

bantering and bickering and scolding

hands locking together

across the breakfast table

with familiarity -

 

They fell for one another

as easily as the stars

blinking out and glowing and shattering

the walls he'd tried so hard to build -

 

And now

he can't tell whether he's talking

about Sam and her

and their home and their lives and their

gentleness

or something else

and someone else

entirely.

 

Dean can't bear it.

He can't.

 

(He does, nevertheless.)

 

**4.**

 

There is a man,

watching him.

He is tall; brown-haired, dark-eyed,

stubble-chinned. He is

handsome, but not glaringly so -

it is more subdued

like when you sink into water

and only feel its chill

after you have entered.

 

The man

sits beside him

and clutches his fingers.

Dean stares, bemused -

pulls back

and away

with a start.

 

The man clings on

tight -

says the same word

over and over

and over

and

over

again -

_Dean_

_Dean_

_Dean -_

 

_It's Sam, Dean,_

_it's me,_ he claims

words hurried and flurried

landing as butterflies

on freckled cheeks -

there is one on a leaf

but a few feet away.

 

_I don't know any Sam,_

Dean informs him,

although he does.

 

He knows a messy little

boy, with sauce-stains on his

cheeks

spooning pasta-sauce into his

gaping maw.

 

He knows a teenage believer 

running away to brightness

and dreams

and a woman

with blonde hair

and intact

innocence.

 

He knows sweat on his temples

and on his fists

and wrists -

he knows a rugged

countenance, staring back

at himself

from painted glass

collar smeared with lipstick and wine

with motor-oil beneath chipped fingernails

and freckles dusting every surface.

 

He knows his brother:

with dark hair

and darker eyes -

a young man, with the

world open wide

before him, like the pages

of those books he left to follow.

 

He does not know this mockery; 

with grey at its temples

and crow's feet

and laughter lines.

 

He does not know.

 

Dean did not want to come here.

He tells them so

day after day

but they do not listen.

They never listen.

 

This apparition is not Sam.

He tells them so.

They do not listen.

 

Through the paper-thin wall,

Dean hears the impostor crying;

turns his head away.

 

Later,

there is a tawny-haired

light-eyed

girl

in the garden

weeding the flower-beds

bent double

in tight, pale dungarees.

 

As he saunters past,

Dean whistles.

 

She is missing

a trenchcoat.

 

**3.**

 

In all his life,

Dean Winchester has only ever

had one tale to tell.

 

It is the tale of two boys:

brothers

who stopped the Apocalypse

and defied the demons

and saved the world.

 

It is the story of motel rooms

and sleepless eves

and weary years

spent in restlessness;

it is the story of grimaces

and groans

and

spirals.

 

It is the story of two brothers;

who stood by one another

('til the bitter end)

and fought and argued and

resented

and

loved.

 

It is a story of camaraderie

and combat

played out in the sun and rain and

bitter, scorching heat.

 

It is the story of blue eyes

and black hair

and rare smiles

and high pulses

and touches. 

 

It is the story of a demon

and a missing mark

and a sacrifice.

 

It is the story

of the death

of an angel.

 

It is Dean's story.

 

It is called Sam

and

Cas.

 

And even though it consists

entirely of blood and

pain, it is also made

up of

joy.

 

It is sunny mornings

rolling in the Impala

kicking back in leather seats.

 

It is fighting demons

with hollow pits for eyes

and snaring webs for souls.

 

It is fighting angels - -

angels - -

saving, transforming angels

who can steal bodies in blinks,

and do not

require

love.

 

It is about betrayal

and grief and anger;

and missing fathers

always missing

spanning the cosmos.

Gone.

 

It is about the people

they meet along the way;

beautiful girls and handsome men

and angels and demons

and scarred, twisted beings

one of which he has become.

 

It is about two brothers

and an angel.

 

Dean wouldn't change it for the world.

 

**2.**

 

The winter prior to the realisation,

Dean climbs out of bed

(blankets pooling on the floor),

walks down the stairs

(they cream beneath his weight),

and exits his brother's home.

 

There are stars above

and concrete and gravel

and flowerbeds below

bursting and blooming with

life; Dean moves along

(is always moving on).

 

The keys are cold in his hand;

they fit perfectly

even after

all this time

smooth as glass

razor-blades

sinking below the water-line -

 

A click; a squeak;

the door opens, complaining

with disuse; and Dean's sliding

slipping into the driver's seat

hands fisting around the wheel

closing; fitting

smooth as a glove.

 

The Impala hums.

 

Dean grins.

 

**1.**

 

Somewhere in the state of Kansas

the Righteous Man

the servant of God

the aide to angels

the traitor

the liar

the fallen

drives.

 

He winds the windows down

and lets the wind whip his hair back;

the car rumbles into life

as though it had never been

tired at all -

 

And Dean Winchester drives

and forgets about the consequences -

and thinks of freedom

and hard-bitten bodies

and beautiful souls -

and everything he's lost

(in a barn - and he'd lied

Cas had lied)

and everything he's found:

an angel

who died

to save him -

and the best friend

he's ever made

who never got

to say goodbye.

 

He sings

and drives

and is

happy.

 

**0.**

 

On a rickety porch in backyard suburbia, a man

lounges,

mimicking former nonchalance

one leg spread wide.

There are shadows,

below his closed eyes -

and they are grass green

with brown flecks.

 

Once, they were black -

black as night

or soot

or a wind-swept evening

with tunnels of air howling

and leaping

and biting -

and fire

rising higher

a gun-shot

and a lone car

that smells of leather

and dusk-beams

and Sam

and him -

even now

after all this time.

 

With amnesia

the memories should surely

fade.

 

They don't -

not the old ones

at least.

Never them.

Never.

 

 _Dean_ , a voice says -

and it must be Sam, or her,

back to help him inside

even though he doesn't need help.

 

_I'm not gonna run off,_

_Sammy,_

_so you can quit_

_your yappin'._

 

Dean looks up, and across, and away -

and his breath catches in his throat

because this cannot be -

and his mind is playing tricks

because he is broken

and always has been broken -

 

And his head is spinning

round and round

faster than a top

a kaleidoscope -

and these are his memories

come to life

right in front of him.

 

The thing stands in front of him

hands by his side

dirt staining his wrists -

and he's neat and tidy

and he's starring downwards

and Dean can't name

his expression.

 

The monster smiles:

softly

and

slightly

and it is familiar -

achingly so.

 

_Hello, Dean._

 

The shadow is so close

and Dean knows him -

he can't think from where

but he knows him -

like he knows the wood beneath

his fingertips

splintering into his tattered skin

a lover's caress

matching his heartbeat.

 

_I know you,_

Dean says.

 

_Yes,_

comes the reply.

 

The spectre moves closer -

and Dean leans back.

The figment is hurt -

Dean can sense it,

sense _him_.

 

Dean looks up at the

creature; with his hard features

and his fast breaths

and his

cobalt

eyes

like the summer sky

above.

 

And Dean looks up -

and looks up -

into the clouds -

and 

 _remembers_. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he stands

arms wrapping around

Castiel,

the man

holds him back

and murmurs into his hair

and doesn't

let

go.

 

 

 

 

_Anterograde amnesia;_

 

_loss of short-term memory_

 

_due to damage_

 

_to to the hippocampus_

 

_and medial temporal lobe._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_However, if only one side_

 

_of the lobe_

 

_is damaged -_

 

_then the neuroplasticity of_

 

_the brain can allow for normal_

 

_(or near normal)_

 

_memories,_

 

_with_

 

_time._

 

 


End file.
